When You Come Undone (Who do you need? Who do you love?)
by orangetulips
Summary: "Shouldn't everyone know, shouldn't the world be reacting right now, stop turning on its axis or some crap, reacting to the fact that this person, his mother, his mom, is not here anymore?" In which a tragedy in Puck's life forces the questions of needs, wants, shoulds, coulds, and didn'ts.
1. Part 1

Dude, his life? Is AWE. SOME. He finally got shit dialed in and is in a direction towards….well, towards something other than screw-up. He is a certified, motherfucking Airman First Class and he is totally making technical training his bitch right now. And what's more is that he LIKES his training classes. All these airplanes to dissect and take apart and put back together - it's like how he used to screw around with cars, only way cooler. It's all Danger Zone Top Gun up in this piece.

Plus, he's finally got the girl. Noah Puckerman has been pursuing Quinn Fabray like, forever. Well, maybe not when she was crazypants Quinn with that pink hair. Oh, and he wasn't really into her when she was all, "let's get Child Protective Services after Shelby!" But, damn, he's been faithful to her - Texas and Connecticut aren't exactly neighbors, and now that Q's in Amsterdam on some study abroad shit, it's even harder, but, whatever, Skype and some (ok, like, ONCE, but he's working on that) phone sex do the trick (mostly). She had been his reward, his goal, since he first set eyes on her in that hott-with-an-extra-t Cheerio uniform freshman year. Noah Puckerman is pretty bomb at entertaining nights, sometimes weeks, with a girl, but this long term relationship thing? Hell yeah, you bet he's rocking that too.

Life's pretty fucking damn good.

And then.

The phone rings.

* * *

><p>It all happened so fast, but at the same time, he felt like he was moving in slow motion.<p>

He doesn't remember calling his Senior Airman. He doesn't remember the words that tumbled out of his mouth, "blood clot," "heart attack." He doesn't remember how many days leave he got, or packing his bag, or getting on the plane, or landing in Lima.

He doesn't remember his 18 year old sister, Becca, her eyes red rimmed, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, picking him up in his mom's SUV from the airport.

He doesn't remember walking up the front path, past the zinnias and geraniums and that one bush that always just grew crazy out of control.

He doesn't remember walking into his house, his familiar house, with the pencil marks in the doorway from charting his and Bec's heights, and the loose wood plank on the floor that always, always creaked, especially at 2am when he was sneaking home.

He does remember sinking onto the couch, that orange and red plaid monstrosity of a couch. He remembers running his fingers over the burn mark where he once put out a cigarette before his mom caught him.

He remembers his head dropping onto a throw pillow that still smelled like her, generic antibacterial lotion mixed in with vanilla.

He remembers wondering how long that smell will last. Before it's gone.

He doesn't remember ever hurting this badly.

* * *

><p>Somehow he made it up to his bedroom. His untouched bedroom. It looked exactly the same as the day he had left for basic training. The consistency of it comforted and crushed him all at the same time.<p>

He didn't call Quinn right away. He didn't call anyone, really, except his supervisor on base, and that was the first, and only, call he made after hanging up the phone with Becca before he had left Texas for Lima.

Bec said she had called Nana Connie. Jesus. Nana Connie didn't even know. Isn't that, like, a mom thing? Don't you get some spidey sense or something when your kid is gonna die? She found out on the phone. Just like he did. Shit. Do people know? Who else knows? Shouldn't everyone know, shouldn't the world be reacting right now, stop turning on its axis or some crap, reacting to the fact that this person, his mother, his mom, is not here anymore?

What's the fucking protocol for this shit? Does _he_ have to call people? What the fuck, he has to keep repeating those horrible, bitter, words? Who would he even call? Does he go down a list? Do people make lists of who to call when they die? Like when there's a snow day and the teachers call each other (funny, the things your brain goes to).

He opens his mouth to holler, "Ma," and ask her.

Shit.

Ma's not there.

Shit. Shit. He…

He feels the red rush into his eyes again and the room spin.

His mom. His ma.

He scrubs his hand over his face for the fiftieth time in the last hour, trying to get his bearings. Becca appears in the frame of his open door, chewing her lip, looking anywhere but at her brother.

"Do I have to, like, call people or something?" he asked.

"No...Nana Connie started calling the relatives, and then all these people from synagogue, and then the phone started ringing and I just stopped answering."

Becca sat down on the bed next to him.

"I didn't want to hear it. All these people calling to say they were sorry and stuff. I don't care, it doesn't bring her back." Her voice trailed off, her face crumpled, and all he could do was put his arm around her.

He doesn't know how to comfort her. He doesn't know how to comfort himself.

* * *

><p>He didn't sleep. Well, maybe he did, his digital clock did change from the last time he looked at it. His mouth had that stale morning taste, but the night had felt wildly unproductive, like he just zombied out.<p>

The old school clock on his nightstand read 5:37am (it still worked? When he left , the batteries were dead... Oh. Ma must have).

He quickly figured that it was around noon in Amsterdam, and he knew Quinn would probably be in class. She's not gonna answer the phone, That's fine. Plus, he can't do it. He just can't say the words again. He knows he has to. But...no. Not yet.

Maybe a text is cold, but, whatthefuckever. His life is pretty cold right about now.

_Q. I'm in Lima. My mom died. _

He didn't expect her to answer right away. His girl focuses on her studies there, almost to a fault. Like, he gets it, make something of yourself and shit but, damn, if _she_ sexted _him_ in the middle of a class? You can damn well bet that he'd answer.

If only this was that kind of text.

His phone rang a few minutes later. "Oh Puck. Oh Puck, oh my God, I'm so sorry. Oh, Puck." The purr of her voice gave him some comfort, and he could hear the bubble in her throat and the echo of the hallway. "Puck….what happened?"

"She collapsed at work. They originally thought heart attack, but it turns out she had a blood clot. I….I didn't even…" His voice trailed off. "Quinn. I...I nee..." He paused. "Can you come home?"

He didn't exactly hear the words she was saying on the other line; they all blurred one into another. He heard her sniffling, then something about logistics and flights and homework and shit….he focused long enough on the, "Love you," at the end to respond accordingly, and hung up.

He rolled over and tried to find sleep.

* * *

><p>When he opened his eyes again, the sun was fully up. He heard Becca and, Nana Connie probably, moving around downstairs. He rolled over onto his back, cupped his hands behind his neck, and stared at the ceiling for who knows how long. The front door downstairs echoed with a mantra of <em>opencloseopencloseopenclose<em> and he knew enough from when his uncle died that people he didn't even know were bringing food he didn't like and wouldn't eat.

His cell was laying on the floor next to the bed, buzzing with texts and missed calls and who the fuck cares. Now that it was regular daytime, he knows the world will be reacting. At least, his world will be. Whatever his world is.

Nana Connie came and sat on the edge of his bed, cooing and clucking over him, as if it was just (_just._ Fuck.) his mom that had died, and not her daughter, too.

That's his Nana. And that's his mom, too. She is always concerned with everyone else first.

Was. Was concerned.

Nana Connie is talking about services, burial, but, like Quinn's words, it all melts into one, and he blankly nods and just goes along with what she says.

* * *

><p>"Puck, I want to be there, I swear I do, I just can't get there right now. Not for the burial at least. I mean, I thought I had some time, like, with Catholic services we get a few days before the actual funeral, and the visitation...like, with Finn's and... but….I can't…and the flights, not till tomorrow, and I'm in the middle of midterms..."<p>

He's not mad at her. He's not.

Or maybe he is. Whatthefuckever. It's not like he can even feel anything right now anyway.

"Yeah. S'ok. I got you." He replies. There's no anger in his voice.

"Puck, oh God, I will do my best to get there as soon as I can, I promise." Her voice is quiet. "I'll be there. And...call me? I'm here."

"Yup."

"Love you?"

"Yup."

He's decided. He's mad.

It's easier to be mad.

* * *

><p>It's a sun shining, cold day at the cemetery, and Puck is grateful for the chance to wear his sunglasses, and not just to shield his eyes from the reflection off of the February snow.<p>

His brother-from-another-mother (literally), Jake, is there, and Jake's ma, and then some aunts and uncles he's used to, but the bulk are the "true blue Jew crew" from his synagogue and the old _yentas_ that get off on grief. He just stays close to Becca and tries to be stoic or some shit, when all he really wants to do is swim to the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels. He's ignored his liquor so far, but it's not going to be much longer till he reacquaints himself with it. When Finn died, he kept himself more than half-drunk for two straight weeks. It was kind of an accomplishment, that, if not for the circumstances, he'd be damn proud of.

He wants to be strong for Becca, for Nana Connie, because that's what his mom would have wanted. He's standing, ramrod straight, in his USAF uniform, hands clasped in front of him. Soldier himself, steel himself, with Bec to his left, Nana Connie holding her up as she silently shakes with tears.

He won't let himself cry in front of all these relatives. Fucking jackass strangers. Where were they when his ma was alive? Shit. Where was _he _when his ma was alive?

He feels like a grade-A asshole, because he honestly can't remember the last time he ever thanked his mom for anything. She stood by him and bailed him out, literally and figuratively, so many fucking times and he doesn't think he ever really thanked her. And now he fucking _can't,_ and he should have at least called her more when he was on base, and when was the last time he actually talked to her? Damn, he hasn't called her in, like, three weeks, and the last time they talked, he told her to can the shit talk about his dating life and no, he's not marrying a Jew, or a Gentile, or anyone for that matter, so shut it, ma.

Crap. He is an awful son. Was an awful son? Shit. Was.

Nope, not gonna cry. Nope. Hold it in, Puckerman, be a man.

He remembers Finn's funeral. Fuck, that was heartbreaking too. And Puck's not a heart breaking kind of person; he breaks the hearts, he doesn't get broken.

He didn't cry at that funeral. At least, not in front of anyone. (He also didn't steal the damn letterman jacket, and yes, he's still pissed that everyone thought he did). Jack. Thank God for all that Jack.

Finn. And now his mom. Jesus. Shit.

Come on, don't be a pussy, Puckerman. Don't cry in front of these people. Puck sets his jaw and squeezes his hands in fists at his side, fists so tight he feels the pulse pounding in his thumbs.

The rabbi is reciting the final prayers when he feels a hand brush against his, working its way in to unclench his fingers.

"Noah." It's Rachel. He hadn't noticed her there, but then again, he hadn't noticed much. "Noah." She whispers again. Her thumb gently sways back and forth over his knuckle, her fingers intertwine with his.

Her gesture is enough to get him to grip her hand back (maybe a _little_ bit tighter than a guy with a girlfriend should…) and he allows a tear to roll silently down his cheek as the dirt hits his mom's casket.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, Nana Connie made the declaration that they will sit shiva for only 3 days. All these people in and out of his house, all this, "Oh I am so sorry, young man," and "at least she didn't suffer," and, "she was so proud of you," and just, everyone needs to shut the fuck up and leave him the hell alone.<p>

He's still reeling from the burial and just wants to, seriously, just go to his room and _drink _already, but everywhere he turns, people are jockeying for his attention and trying to comfort him with useless words.

He grabs a bagel from the kitchen and manages to escape a potentially 10-minute diatribe of his Aunt Louisa repeating, "oh you poor kids," over and over again.

He's done crying. Now it's time to get shitty blackout drunk for the next seven days before he goes back to base.

He closes his bedroom door and sighs with relief upon wrapping his fingers around the bottle, his good buddy Jack's neck. God bless us motherfuckers, everyone.

And of course, the minute the rim of that bottle hits his lips, his door opens, and fuck the lack of a lock on his door.

"Hi, Noah." Rachel is like some ninja ghost or some shit, with how she just randomly appears places. She sits down on the floor next to him, leaning against the bottom of his bedframe and smooths out her (ridiculously short for a funeral, but, hel-_lo_) navy blue skirt. "I'm not going to ask how you are."

"Good," he snaps. Probably a little too tightly.

"I see the bottle of whiskey in your hands and please, be aware that if you would like to imbibe in my presence, while I don't normally condone alcohol as a coping mechanism, I can certainly excuse this given the circumstances."

"Gee, thanks for your _permission._"

She actually folds her hands and watches him. This might be worse than the crazy aunts downstairs. Is she, like, waiting for him to drink? Is she gonna watch him?

Well, whatever, Noah Puckerman doesn't need an engraved invitation for whiskey. He slugs down his first gulp.

"When did you get here? Aren't you, like, in New York or something? Classes and shit?" He asks, punctuating his question with another gulp. "Fucking _midterms_?" He spits the words out.

They're not really meant for her.

So, ok, yeah, he's still mad.

"My dad called me yesterday with…" She hesitates. "...the news. I skipped classes and got the first flight out of JFK this morning. I needed to be here." She nods, decisively (she's Rachel Berry, yeah?). "I _wanted_ to be here." Her lashes drop and her next words come out in a rush. "Noah, I know everyone will be saying how sorry they are, and I just wanted you to know -"

"Yeah, whatever," He cuts her off. Gulp. "You and everyone else and just, whatever. Fucking contest to see how many sorries I can get. Few more days and I'm goin' back."

She replied quietly. "_I_ wasn't going to say I'm sorry."

He shrugs. This one burns going down his throat. It's easier to be mean. To be cutting. To be rude and crass and it's just so much.

Easier.

"So you're not? You're not _sorry_ that my mom fucking died? You're not _sorry_ that I was a complete dick to her the last time I talked to her? You're not _sorry_ that, fuck, who knows where Becca's gonna live when she's home from college? You're not _sorry_ that my own fucking girlfriend -"

He's interrupted by surprise and shock when Rachel suddenly grabs the bottle of whiskey out of his hands and takes a long…..damn, _long_ drink from it, and slaps it back onto the carpeted floor.

Like, an, "at-least-two-shots-worth" sized drink. An, "I'm-the-size-of-a-small-puppy-but-can-drink-like-a-trucker", sized drink.

Well then. She's staring at him, defiantly, eyebrows raised, and a hint of a….challenge in her eyes.

Huh. So this is what his mom's shiva is gonna be like.

* * *

><p>They've had these silences before, where it's just actions, no words. Rachel has the ability to talk the ear off of a rock, but with Puck, it's never...filling airspace. She doesn't feel the need to puncture with babbling words. She can just exist and he can just exist and the give and take, push and pull, of whatever their friendship-that's-not-friendship is, just….exists comfortably.<p>

The bottle passes back and forth between the two of them, the minutes passing. The dull murmur of indistinguishable voices downstairs, the same cadence of _opencloseopencloseopenclose_ of the door, provides a backdrop, a soundtrack for this...this. Whatever this is, whatever it's ever been, when they interact.

Rachel doesn't ask where Quinn is. She knows from the Glee Facebook group she manages that Quinn is abroad. She's amazed, though, that she didn't make it back here to support her boyfriend but….well, the Puck/Quinn relationship has never been conventional to begin with, either. He has that effect on girls, she supposes.

She can't assume to know exactly what Noah is going through. She can't imagine losing a parent. She's been through her share of loss and grief, and she knows how Noah handles (or, doesn't handle) his emotions.

When Finn died, she found little comfort in the sentences that everyone placated her with. Words don't help. Ever. Words reopen wounds, words pour salt on wounds, words remind you that he is not here, he will not be here, ever again. She found little comfort in the, "No, but, how _are_ you?" and those pitying looks. Pity is unproductive. People want you to talk to them, to pour your heart out to them, on the subway or in a restaurant, or when they bump into you at a coffee shop. They all mean well, she knows this, but really? She's not going to cry her eyelashes off about her dead ex-boyfriend in the middle of The Lima Bean. Especially not to a stranger. She'd really wanted to pull a play from the Noah Puckerman handbook and tell them all exactly where they could go. Fuck them and their pity. They didn't know her.

No one would leave her alone. But at the same time, she didn't want to be alone, she just wanted to be left alone. Why didn't anyone seem to get that? She suspects, sitting here on his dingy brown carpet, maybe Noah gets it.

Unfortunately.

She doesn't expect him to open up to her. But she does know he can, and will, shut down. She just wants him to know she's here, to help bridge that medium place, between pouring your heart out and shuttering your heart up. And if that means sitting and drinking with him, well, hand her the bottle.

Except...well...she can't really keep up with his pace. She's trying, though, and she's holding her own...kind of. But if this is what he needs, she understands.

Rachel understands grief.

* * *

><p>The Jack is half done, Puck's eyes are bloodshot, and they've spent the last hour laughing over choir room memories. He's teasing her, she's rolling along with it, feigning her overly dramatic, typical Rachel Berry indignance. It's refreshing to laugh, to forget momentarily, why Rachel is here and why he's on his way into a drunken blackout.<p>

"Omigod, and Night of Neglect?! When Mercedes wanted all those puppies!" Rachel was gasping with laughter.

"Oh Goooooooood…" Puck moaned. "I had to jimmy the lock to the pet store and then one shit in my truck, the little bastard."

"Ahaha, a shot for a….a shit!" Rachel spit the words out and started laughing hysterically, pushing the rapidly emptying bottle at him. Oh, damn, Berry was drunk if she's cursing. Then again, he wasn't exactly sober as a nun. He was flying pretty high.

And her eyes are just stupid sparkly and whenever she starts on a string of her (fucking cute as fuck, wait, _what_?) drunken giggles, she grabs his bicep or his wrist, and he definitely doesn't _not_ like being touched by Rachel Berry.

It's refreshing. It's refreshing to not acknowledge and entertain pity, or think about futures, futures missing integral parts. Just pasts, when everyone was ok and alive and it's just so fucking _refreshing_ and he doesn't want to stop and just everything and nothing all at once and not thinking and the world is swimming in front of him but Rachel, Rachel is still, and smiling and not swimming or moving or swaying or thinking, he's not thinking, not thinking.

Definitely not thinking.

And definitely drinking, and drinking, and she keeps drinking and he sure as fuck is going to keep drinking, and he's certainly not thinking when he grabs Rachel's face, in the middle of a stretch of those giggles (fuck, so cute) and just starts kissing her.

And then for the first time since he got the call from Becca, nothing is spinning, nothing is floating, and it's just NoahandRachel and that's fine and he's not thinking he's kissing he's kissing he's kissing.

And she's certainly not thinking either when she wraps her arms around his neck, and pulls herself into his lap. His hands are in her hair and her whispery gasps are in his mouth and he can't won't don't ever stop kissing.

And, oh God, his mouth moves to her neck and he nibbles her ear, her eyes are closed, she moans breathily, and ohGodohGodohGod and his nose is nuzzling against the edge of her hair and pleaseNoahpleaseNoahpleasepleaseplease.

And, fuck. FUCK. He's making out with Rachel Berry, at a shiva for his MOM, and, fuck, and Finn and his MOM, and Quinn, and, _NO_, he does not want to stop.

Cause it's so much easier. So, so, so much easier.

* * *

><p>He tastes like whiskey and salt and just...he tastes and smells like comfort and safety and warmth and Noah. She remembers it all these years later, the last time she kissed him was, what, 4 years ago? But still, so easy and just so….Noah.<p>

Her mind is fuzzy, so fuzzy, from all the drinking she had to do to keep up with him. Grief has no rules. Grief has no pie charts and pro/con lists and, she knows this is bad, so, so bad. There's Quinn, and there was Finn, but then his hand cups her behind and, oh, oh my, it's so, sooooo good.

It's no secret that it's been a damn while since she had any sort of male interaction. And what a reintroduction into that world she is getting. Noah has always been good, mind blowing, amazing, at his "craft."

Her logical mind keeps screaming at her to stopstop_stop_. She has every reason in the world to stop.

But Rachel's pretty unhappy with her life right now, the monotonous acquiescence that her life has adopted. So, this whole making out thing? She's just going to _gogogo._

Cause it's so much easier. So, so, so much easier.

* * *

><p>Of course his phone rings. Of motherfucking course his cell phone starts blaring and jolts both of them out of the spell they were in and Rachel leaps off of his lap and, grief stricken or not, Puck was about to go under the shirt to the promised land of Berry boobs and fuck that noise.<p>

Of course it's Quinn.

Well, fuck. Stone cold sober, now, that's for sure.

He lets it ring out and vibrate its way across the floor.

"So. I, um, I probably should go." She whispers it, and then bumps into the side of his dresser as she's attempting for a quick getaway.

"You're still drunk, Rachel." It's a label, a reminder, a veiled plea to get her to stay.

"My dad's downstairs; I didn't drive here."

She scoots out of his bedroom, refusing to meet his eyes.

* * *

><p>A few (painful, in more ways than one) hours later, he's sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of baked ziti absentmindedly and scrolling on his phone. The shiva for the day is finished, everyone gone, so he's flipping through texts to see if any were worth a response. Just a metric fuck-ton of, "I'm sorry man" and "Gonna try to make it later this week" and, whatever. Sorry is lame.<p>

Becca slides into the chair across from him and cuts right to the chase (in typical Puckerman fashion). "Where was Quinn today? You guys break up?"

Puck doesn't lift his eyes from his phone. "You know she's away. She couldn't get here." (Well, her voicemail from earlier said she was gonna be on a flight tomorrow afternoon but, whatever, he doesn't care and yeah, he's still mad and no, he didn't call her back because he's still thinking of his handful of Rachel Berry ass and so-close-to-tits from earlier).

He doesn't have to look up at her to know that Bec's eyes are rolling. "Your eyeballs are gonna get stuck in the back of your head like that, and I am going to laugh my ass off at you."

"She's your _girlfriend, _Puck. What the hell?" Just like his mother, Becca was not Quinn Fabray's biggest fan. "I know she's far away but _Jesus_."

"And Jesus ain't here either, Bec. So shut up."

"I'm just sayin." She raised her hands in surrender. "Rachel Berry was here for a pre-tty long time."

Puck still didn't break his gaze on his phone screen. "Yup."

"None of your other friends came today."

That got his attention. "So they'll come tomorrow! Fuck, Becca!" He threw his phone down. "What the hell?"

Again, hands raised. "I'm just. Sayin." Fucking teenagers, man.

"God, Bec, you can be such a bitch, you know that?" He shoved away from the table and stomped off upstairs.

Shitty thing was, yeah, she was a bitch, but she was also right and that _sucked_.

* * *

><p>"So how long do you think you'll be home for, babydoll?" LeRoy pushed a cup of tea across the table to Rachel.<p>

She pulled her hoodie over her shoulders as she sat at the table. "Thanks, Daddy. I don't want to intrude on you for too long." She stirred her mug. "I know your new  
>place is...small."<p>

"Now, baby, you will have a room, and a home, wherever I, or your father, live. Always."

"I know. Thanks."

"Did you get to spend some time with Noah tonight? He must be devastated. I didn't seem him for awhile at shiva."

"Yes. He's….he's...ok, I guess." She felt an involuntary blush creep up her cheeks with the memory of his hands in her hair...on her back...

"Is he still with that Quinn girl? I didn't see her today."

It bothers her that Quinn wasn't there. It shouldn't bother her, but, you know what, yes. It does. She shrugs silently.

Thumbs stroking her cheek, oh God. Fingertips trailing under the hem of her sweater.

"You're a good friend to him, sweetheart. He's lucky to have you."

She just nods as her father goes to put his mug in the sink. "Good night, Rachel, sweet dreams."

Rachel's left sitting at the table, staring into her now cold mug of untouched tea.

Lips on her neck, tongue flicking her earlobe, arms, oh his lovely, lovely arms, holding her so tight, his hands trailing down, down...

Oh God.


	2. Part 2

_A/N: Thank you all SO FREAKIN MUCH for all your reviews and comments! I know it was a little long since I last posted - the muse wasn't giving me what I felt P & R deserved... but here comes part 2 AND 3...and lots of smutty smut! Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p>The steam from the running water weaves around them, and his fingers extend into her damp hair, his knuckles rapping against the cold tile of the back shower wall. One arm around her waist, his fingertips graze her hip, and he cups a handful of her perfect tight ass, moaning into her mouth. His tongue trails down, her jaw, her neck, his nose nuzzles the valley in between her breasts, and he laps up the tang of her skin as it mixes with the hot water.<p>

She moans breathily as his tongue circles around her pert nipple. She grabs a handful of his hair and _puuuulllls, _so he adds teeth and tongue and nibbles and sucks, and _fuck_, he will never tire of that voice, her moan, and he pretty much needs it echoing in his ears for the rest of his motherfucking life.

"Noahhhhh," she pleads again, so his free hand moves to dip in between her legs. So good, so fucking good and wet and perfect and she wraps one leg around his waist and he hoists her up and she curls herself around him, just as he curls his finger inside of her, twisting, feeling every bit of her as he moves in deeper and -

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

Wait, what? What? The fuck?

Where is he?

Bed, no shower.

Alone. Dammit, alone.

Hands empty, and his dick? Shit, man, sporting one HELL of a morning wood.

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

Seriously, what the actual fuck, where's the shower? Where's Ra -

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

JESUS CHRIST PHONE. It vibrates itself pointedly to the edge of his bedside table. Puck presses the silence button and hurls it across the room. His hands wipe over his face as he tries to orient, the sun streaming piecemeal through the navy curtains on his window, the stillness of the air in the room, the silence…

The insanely painful bulge in his boxers.

Damn. Fucking dream of a dream. Like…._fuck_. Seriously, that was so real, he could legit taste her (or, at least, what he assumes she tastes like, and damn, so good). Vivid motherfucker of a dream. Shit.

He was totally about to get Rachel Berry off. Rachel fucking _Berry_. Damn. He hasn't had a Berry sex dream since, like...senior year of high school?

Ok, so _maybe_ he has them every now and then and _maybe_ he thinks about her ass in those little skirts sometimes when he's taking care of his business and fuck you, he doesn't exactly picture her when he's with Quinn so shut up (ok, so it happened like, once. Maybe twice) but it's not cheating so like he said. Fuck you.

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

AGAIN?!

Ready to give whoever on the other line a piece of his mind (cause, seriously? First the dream interruption and now he has to actually move and get UP), "WHAT!" He hollers into the phone.

"Puck?"

Shit. Oh, shit, it's Quinn.

Quinn his girlfriend.

His girlfriend who couldn't bear to tear herself away from her school to be there when he needed her.

Fuck no. He didn't _need_ her. Puck doesn't need anything. Or anyone.

Well, he could _need_ that shower scene. He _is_ Noah Puckerman.

"Puck? Are….are you there?"

Oh, right. Quinn.

"Hey. Yeah, hey, I'm here." He yawned and shoved his thumb into his left eye. "Was just...sleeping." He plopped back down on his bed and attempted to wipe the sleep (and, _mmmm,_ Rachel tits) from his eyes.

"Well, I'm home, in Lima, I landed late last night but I didn't want to call you." (probably a good move cause, you know, Rachel tits). "I'm at my mom's. Can I come over?"

"What? I mean, yeah." He's still thinking about Berry moans and Berry mouth and Berry ass and... "I - lemme get in the shower first."

Mmm. Shower.

He is possibly _not_ thinking of Quinn (Quinn. His girlfriend) while he's in the shower with his hand wrapped around his dick.

But, again, that kinda thing only happens every now and then. And seriously. That _dream_.

* * *

><p>Hours later, Rachel sits in her car, chewing her lip. She's parked a few cars away from the Puckerman house.<p>

It's awkward. This is awkward.

As she tried fervently (and, eventually, fruitlessly) to fall asleep last night, she kept replaying the make out session from yesterday's shiva, like a record on repeat.

She could not stop the tingles throughout her body when she thought of all the places Noah's hands went (and all the places she, oh _God,_ all the places she _wanted_ them to go). She can't get it out of her mind, and, consequently, she can't let anything _in _to her mind, because all that's floating around in there...lips and arms and hands and -

Deep breath.

_I should go into the house_, she thought.

She pulls her hand off of the car door handle and feels the full body flush creep back up , through her legs, belly, arms, even the tips of her hair are ablaze right now. _No. No, I should go right home and take a cold shower._

_Right, Rach_, she scoffed to herself. _A lot of good a shower did you last night._ In fact, the shower only made it worse, because then her mind started on the steam from the shower, which fueled whatever was curling up in her abdomen, and her hand involuntarily moved down and then she was thinking about showering with Noah and -

_RACHEL BARBRA BERRY YOU STOP THIS INSTANT. Since when are you this wanton sex-crazed woman, lusting after Noah Puckerman?! _

_Tenth grade._

Ugh, she can't even fool her inner monologue.

_You're supposed to be grieving, Rachel. _She scolded herself. _Your sole purpose here is to be a good, reliable friend to Noah. You are here to help him through this crisis, to pay your respects to him and his family and this dreadful loss, supporting him however necessary._

_However necessary, Rachel? Really? Going to support him right out of his pants, are you?_

_No._

_Rachel. Puck has a girlfriend. A girlfriend who's __not you__, and this is so bad, you need to stop thinking about this, you need to stop wanting this, Rachel._

Ok. This is fine. She's an actress. She can go in there and put on her regular Rachel Berry face and performance, and maybe pull Noah aside later on and they can discuss what went on yesterday. _And he will reiterate what I know is true; it was a one time thing and my mind is working overtime because, maybe I'm a little sexually deprived lately, but who isn't right? _She nods emphatically to punctuate her thoughts.

_I mean, it's entirely plausible that my hormones are raging because I haven't been with someone for at least a year, and I'm pretty sure if I continued that internet research I began at approximately 2am last night on said topic, it will corroborate my hypothesis that a large percentage of the female population in my age bracket aren't receiving adequate lovemaking to suit their needs. _

Rachel sighs miserably.

_Except Quinn. Quinn probably is completely and totally sexually satisfied. All sexed up on the regular. Lucky duck._

But really, hopefully a logical, mature conversation with Noah will put an end to these _ridiculous_ feelings she is having, but then again maybe he will wrap his arms around her and -

_RACHEL._

_Right. Right. Time to go inside. This is a shiva, Rachel. A solemn event, not a social event, not an opportunity to quell any sort of (insane, unfounded, utterly absurd) sexual desires. _She opened her car door and hoped that the blast of frigid February air would cool her off, because right now? She is positively on fire head to toe.

_Normalnormalnormalnormal._ She chanted in her head with every step closer to the front door.

_It was nothing, just a drunken hookup, a mistake, compounded by grief, and it didn't mean anything and it won't happen again_. _A. Mistake._

And she does not want it to happen again, and -

_Oh God, yes I do, I do so much._

"Oh, Rachel! Hi!" The door flies open and there's Quinn on the other side.

Quinn, Noah's girlfriend (_girlfriend_), pulled her into a hug.

Quinn, _Puck's _girlfriend. Quinn's words melt together, penetrating Rachel's ears in indistinguishable white noise. She gingerly returns the embrace, discretely peering over Quinn's shoulder. She spots Noah across the room, not in his dress blues, but in a simple button down shirt and tie, sitting on the couch alone. He raises his arm to stretch and yawn as he scratches the back of his neck, and just the mere sight of his arms, muscular biceps bulging out of the rolled up shirt sleeves, his strong, capable, hands, long, dexterous fingers, and she's...she's absolutely...

Rachel usually doesn't allow herself to use such vulgar language but this situation definitely calls for it.

She's fucked.

* * *

><p>It's kind of screwed up that Quinn is here. Ok, she <em>is <em>his girlfriend.

And why does he have to keep reminding himself of that?

But, ok, he's glad she was able to tear herself away from school (he's not mad. He's _not_). But this whole situation is just...weird. Becca has been shooting daggers with her eyes at Quinn the whole time (like, more than usual even), and Quinn is ignoring it, so at least that's good that he doesn't have to play Judge Judy here, but it's like...she's just too..._cordial_ and hostess-y shit with his family to really be at a shiva. She's going up to everyone introducing herself, and a lot of these relatives she's never met (cause, really, he's not bringing home anyone to his extended family like, ever) and seriously, his mom fucking -

No. He's not going to think about it. After his shower this morning (and, hot damn, what a shower it was), he found Becca sitting at the kitchen table, clutching his ma's purse and crying. And then he got this huge ass lump in his throat while trying to calm her down for, like, 20 minutes, and then Quinn walked into the house and Bec turned her tears off like a fucking light switch and changed into demon sister, stomping upstairs, slamming her bedroom door.

So then he spent the next 20 minutes listening to Quinn psychoanalyze Bec's behavior and talk about some stages of grief crap, mixed in with these pleas of " talk to me Noah, tell me how you feel, don't shut down," and he just sat with his head in his hands. Then she started on with this useless "I am so sorry," and those stupid placeholder shit words everyone else uses and he just wanted everyone and everything to just go away.

He's just so impatient, you know? Like, he hates that his ma's not here, he hates that he's feeling so fucking shitty sad, and he hates everyone looking at him with those stupid big eyes because it just reminds him that his ma's. Not. _Here_.

But worse than those eyes and all the sorries? Is pretending nothing is different. Because it _is_ all kinds of fucked up different and there are all these unanswered questions and shit he's got to figure out and it kind of sucks to see people smiling and being all chatty shit because he doesn't want to smile ever again, or at least, not today.

He remembers this word from English class in high school (whatever, Ms. Smith had huge knockers and they got hard nipples every now and then and that shit is worth paying attention for so shut up). Paradox. When two things are opposites but coexist. His fucking life is a paradox.

But seriously though? Shiva's not a social event.

It's also not an occasion to hook up with your dead best friend's ex girlfriend, but. Whatever.

* * *

><p>Luckily for Rachel, distractions made themselves known when she walked into the Puckerman living room. Some of their old Glee club members had stopped in - Kurt and Blaine, Mr. Schue, Sam. So while it felt a little bizarre to reunite with old friends at a solemn event, at least it kept her mind occupied. And it's not like she was laughing and joking with the Gleeks. She was just….catching up.<p>

Truth be told, she couldn't keep her focus entirely on the conversations in front of her. Her attention kept straying back to Noah. He was following Quinn around with this look on his face as she went up to different guests. Quinn seemed to have this routine, Rachel observed. First she'd introduce herself as Puck's girlfriend (and, Rachel had noticed, more than a few of the guests reacted surprised to that sentiment). Then Quinn would cock her head to the side, she'd touch the shoulder or arm of whomever she was talking to, and give them these big sad eyes. Every now and then Rachel would catch a few snippets of, "so sorry," and "denial", and "grieving."

_At least she's being supportive_, thought Rachel. _Or, trying_.

When Finn died, she got all the same well intentioned speeches and words and, for her, they really didn't help. People get weird about death. They need to say something, not really to make you feel better, but to make _themselves_ feel better about trying to make you feel better. But words? Well, when someone you love dies, words do little.

_But that was Finn_, Rachel continued her musing. _And that was me. And it was such a bizarre situation, it was inevitable that people would have gotten awkward around the deceased ex fiancee/ex girlfriend, ex whatever I was. S_o maybe she took their responses and reactions at Finn's wake a little too seriously_. And after all, surely Quinn knows Puck better than anyone else so she must have an idea of what will help him, and maybe by her being this, ambassador, of sorts, that will help._

"Rachel? Hey, Rach?" Kurt was waving his hand in front of her face. "You there?"

She realized everyone was looking to her for some sort of response.

Oops.

"Right. Um," she floundered. "What?"

_Some actress, Rach_. She thought. _Way to bring your A game._

* * *

><p>It was getting dark out and the group at Puck's house was thinning. The Glee clubbers had left, and Rachel was helping Becca clean up, while Quinn was perched on the arm of the chair Puck was sitting in, her fingers intertwined with his.<p>

Rachel's not jealous.

She _not._

It's just that those fingers were in _her_ hair a little less than 24 hours ago, and maybe she feels guilty for that but moreover maybe she _might_ feel a _little_ bit jealous.

_Rachel,_ she admonished herself, and went to drop a stack of paper plates into the kitchen garbage. She started wrapping up leftover bundt cake and busying herself. Distractions.

She doesn't recognize this person that she is becoming.

"So you understand, Puck, right?" Quinn said in a low voice, massaging Puck's fingers with her free hand, not meeting his eyes. "I wish I could stay longer, and you know I want to be here with you but I could only really get away for a short period of time, and it's midterms and I am so close to landing this amazing internship with my professor…" her voice trailed off and Puck rubbed his face.

"Yeah, whatever, Q, it's fine."

"I mean really, Puck, you can call me anytime, day or night, I am here for you. I _want_ to be here for you." She paused, and rested her fingers over his knuckles. "It's just so much time flying back and forth and I really can't be away for so long. This semester could make or break my future career...our future life together." She took a deep breath. "You know I love you, Puck. I do. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

Rachel walked back into the living room as Quinn was standing up. "Rachel, I've got to get going, but it was great to see you again," She walked forward to give Rachel a hug. "Albeit under terrible circumstances."

Rachel returned the hug, less gingerly than before, maybe still just a little bit guarded, though. "How long are you in town for?"

"Just today," she responded, glancing at Puck, and biting her bottom lip. "Um. Unfortunately, I...I have to leave early tomorrow morning."

He's not mad.

He's _not_.

"Oh….well," She took a breath. She can't look at Noah right now. She just can't. "Have a safe trip back and a productive semester."

Quinn cocked her head to the side and took Rachel's hand. "I know you were fond of Mrs. Puckerman, as well, Rachel. Please know that I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks, Quinn." Rachel turned to return back to the kitchen, out of this...this scene because...because what? She wasn't sure why she was so...angry?

_Why couldn't Quinn stay, I mean, this is her boyfriend's mother_?

_And since when was I so invested in the dealings of Noah Puckerman_? A little voice in the back of her head whispered, _since always, Rachel_, but that voice was easy to ignore. _Who is this person I am becoming, letting my loins overrule my logic? Jumping to these ludicrous, preposterous conclusions about the behavior of a couple that I really know nothing about? _

_Just because he kissed you last night, Rachel_, _doesn't mean you have any claim to what goes on in Quinn and Puck's relationship,_ she berated herself_._

She stacked dishes in the sink and ran the faucet full blast to drown out the pulsing in her ears.

_It's not your place, Rachel_. She thought. Quinn's with Puck. _And Quinn probably knows what he needs, and Quinn wouldn't leave if Puck really needed her._

* * *

><p>He's not mad.<p>

He's _not_.

But...she couldn't just...I mean, she was only there for not even a full 24 hours.

Maybe he's mad.

But then again, he really didn't miss Q that much last night, when Rachel Berry was in his lap, but whatthefuckever.

* * *

><p><em>Well, I certainly can't talk to him now about our...our tryst, <em>she thought. Quinn left about a half hour ago, and she's been cleaning (_ok, fine, hiding_) in the kitchen since then. There were a handful of people left, no one she was familiar with.

But she didn't want to leave. Yet.

_He's grieving, Rachel. _She thought. _Give him space. Be there, but not there. _

So she starts washing the endless stack of glasses and mugs with a detail oriented fury and dedication worthy of a gold medal in dishwashing Olympics. _Space, Rachel. Give him space._

Ok. When she finishes cleaning this glass, she will go into the living room and -

* * *

><p>"What. The. ACTUAL. <em>FUCK<em>?"

His fucking father is NOT here. That rat bastard is NOT STANDING IN HIS LIVING ROOM RIGHT NOW.

He sees red and flashes of white and his eyes are throbbing and _HELL MOTHERFUCKING NO._


	3. Part 3

Startled, Rachel drops the glass she's scrubbing in the sink and shards plink against the basin. She runs to the living room, where she had just heard Noah's roar.

Mr. Puckerman is standing in the front doorway. Actually, it's more like he's leaning against the doorjamb unsteadily, and -

Oh dear.

Drunk. Bloodshot eyes, slurring words, stumbling drunk.

Puck's jaw is set tight, his hands in fists, eyes narrowed to almost indistinguishable slits.

"My son," Mr. Puckerman starts towards him, hand outstretched, and Puck slaps it away.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"I'm not allowed to pay condolences, and _grieve_, for my _wife_?" Mr. Puckerman's eyes opened wide. "Why so angry, son? You weren't so _angry _last time we chatted." He paused and swept his glance around. "This was my house once too. You and Becca were mine. Are mine."

His words reverberated as they bounced off the walls of the still room.

"She was not. Your _wife_," Puck talked through clenched teeth, fists balled up tight. "You are _not _my father. You never _were_ my fucking father, you piece of shit. Now get the _fuck_ out of _my_ house."

Mr. Puckerman turned towards Nana Connie. "Connie. Our poor Rina. _My_ Rina. She was gone too soon." Nana Connie took a step away from him.

"I _swear_ to God, get the fuck out of my house, you motherfucking low life drunk piece of -" Rachel reached for Puck's arm.

"Noah," she whispered. "Noah, please…"

"Listen to your girlfriend, _son_," Mr, Puckerman spat the word with derision, and tripped over a side table. "I'm grieving too, you asshole." He started towards Becca. "My girl. You grew up to be such a pretty girl, my Rebecca."

* * *

><p>And that was it, because <em>hell fucking no <em>is this bastard going to try to pull any kind of shit with his sister, the fucking daughter he never even saw after she was 3 years old. Everything exploded all at once.

He landed a firm punch squarely on his fathers jaw, hard, knocking him over the coffee table, and then another and then all he could see was his father's shitty ass face in front of him and he just wanted to keep hitting and punching and fuck, someone grabbed him, someone is pulling him away and he all he could see is rage, white hot, pounding in front of his eyes.

Becca is screeching a tirade of "fuck you's" and "get the fuck out", and his dad is screaming and Nana Connie is crying and everyone is yelling and it's Rachel, Rachel is the one pushing him into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen and sliding the door closed.

He's shaking so fucking _hard _and he can't catch his breath and his heart is about to pound out of his chest and he is going to fucking KILL him he is going to wrap his Goddamn hands around his lying, fucking, deserting throat and twist and choke until he turns eleven fucking shades of blue and then he will still keep twisting. He cannot believe, of all the fucking people to walk through that fucking door, and what the fuck does he even think he's doing here and he was never, ever a fucking husband to his mom and , he is going to rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass and how dare he, _how mother fucking dare he_-

"Noah."

He feels Rachel's hands on his face, solid, still. He can't focus, everything is spinning and pulsing in front of him.

"Noah. Look at me." Her voice is quiet, calm. "Not here. I know, Noah, I know how much it hurts. But. Not here. Not now."

His head is going to explode, his eyes, his eyes hurt, the tightness in his chest is twisting and turning and suffocating him. He is going to fucking KILL him -

"Breathe, Noah. Breathe." Her hands are still on his face. He tries to steady himself, to stop the shaking, the throbbing.

It just fucking _hurts_. It all hurts so fucking _much _and he just can't...he just can't _do_ it. His mom, his mother, she's gone, he can't, and his dad is such an asshole and he was never a father and everyone always leaves him, they always fucking _leave_ and he's trying so hard and he needs to keep it together he needs….he needs…

Something inside him breaks. Something tears, something shatters. Something drops deep into the pit of his stomach and snaps, hard, and he can't stop it, he can't stop.

He closes his eyes and drops his head and he's crying.

* * *

><p>Rachel still has her hands on his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks.<p>

Oh God. Oh Noah.

Rachel's heart is breaking. She just holds him, and he lets her, rests his head against hers, and she feels his shoulders heaving and his breaths coming in and out raggedly.

She's not going to say it will be ok.

She's not going to say she is sorry for him.

She's not going to say anything. He's broken, so she's just going to be there, be here, be with him.

And hopefully that will be enough.

* * *

><p><em>Fuck. Fuck. Calm down, Puckerman, get your shit together here. <em>

"Shit," He breathed in. "Shit. Jesus. Fuck." He turned from Rachel and rubbed his hands over his face. "Dammit. _Dammit_."

Rachel doesn't know what to say. She just stands, waits.

"Fuck, Rachel. Fuck." He slams his hand down on the lid of the dryer. "Why the fuck did he show up here?"

"I know, Noah," She's whispering. "I know."

He paced up and down the length of the room as Rachel stood, watching him, wringing her hands, when Becca slides the door open to the laundry room. "Hey," she starts out, and bites her lip. "Dad's gone. Um. Puck. Are you...ok?"

"Yeah," he responded tonelessly. Then, with more vigor and anger, "Where is he? I swear to God, Bec, I'm going after him, I am going to fucking kill him."

"Uncle Rich dragged him out of the house, and Nana Connie locked the door. The cops are dealing with him right now outside." She tried to hide a grin. "Apparently someone called the cops when they saw him driving piss drunk and he hit a few parked cars. The cops were at our door within seconds of your escape." She allowed the patented Puckerman smirk to bloom her face. "Your left hook is banging, bro. That was fucking _awesome._ It's gonna leave a damn good bruise."

"Shit," He took in another deep breath. "Cops. Am I - is Nana Connie pissed?"

"Nah. She would have hit him if you didn't, I bet. And no one said anything to the cops about your punch, so I'd just stay in here till they leave." Becca turned, starting to pull the door closed with her before she looked over her shoulder with a sly smile. "And if anyone asks about you, I'll just tell 'em you and Rachel are macking it on the washing machine."

Rachel flushed a crimson red.

"Bec, seriously, the fuck!"

"Oh, please, Puck." Becca rolled her eyes. "Gimme a break. First of all, like anyone _really _believes the great Noah Puckerman could have a steady girlfriend...especially one who couldn't _possibly_ even stay a full day." Becca paused. "Secondly, no one saw her _yesterday _at mom's funeral, but they sure saw Rachel holding your hand and then _mysteriously _disappearing from shiva _at the same time as you _last night."

Rachel grimaced.

"And thirdly? Quinn sucks. The End." Becca pulled the door shut.

Puck groaned and rolled his eyes. "Fucking teenager, I swear."

"Noah, I…" Rachel stopped, and then started again, looking at her feet. "I'm sorry Quinn left."

He hopped up to sit on the dryer, and shrugged. "Whatever."

"She shouldn't have, you know," Rachel starting gaining confidence, and her words came out more forceful, more deliberate. "You needed her here and she abandoned you."

"Geez, Rachel, I don't _need_ anyone." He's not mad. "Q puts Q first and everyone and everything second and whatever, I knew that, it's always _been_ like that." Ok, so maybe he is mad.

"Well." She doesn't know _what's _coming over her but she's...angry. Like, really angry now. And the words just start coming out before she could stop or think or act and it's just a flood. "Well. You know what, I'm not sorry that I hooked up with her boyfriend. You know that? _I'm not sorry_, I mean, if she was any other friend, maybe I would be sorry, maybe I would be guilty, that I was this brazen other woman, and I know, that was probably just a mistake, a one time thing and you're pretty much grief stricken and I can't hold you entirely, coherently, responsible for your actions and I'm sure that I was just a release for some of your emotions, and that's fine, you know what, I am ok with being a release. I enjoyed being a release, oh, did I _enjoy _it. But _dammit_, Noah, I'm not sorry! I'm not sorry it happened and I'm not sorry to Quinn and I'm not sorry to be some hussy, and she shouldn't have left you, and _God_, would you _please_ just tell me last night was just nothing already, just a silly mistake fueled by grief and alcohol and hormones so I can move on and stop thinking about you and your arms and your mouth and just….just tell me it was a mistake and that's that! Ok? Ok!"

Now Rachel is the one breathing heavy, face ablaze, hands on her hips, looking at Puck defiantly.

Angry, passionate Rachel? _Kiiiiiiiiiinda_ turns him on.

He cocked his eyebrow up. "I knew _exactly_ what I was doing last night, Rach."

"Oh, please, Noah," Her defiance was tinged with a very slight hint of sarcasm. "You were pretty far drunk. My goodness, you're going through a terrible time right now. And, a girlfriend, you have a _girlfriend_! You must agree, our actions were most certainly a mistake."

So maybe he was drunk yesterday but really? It wasn't a fucking mistake. And it pisses him off that, always with Rachel, the stupid ass token excuse is always that he was "a mistake."

He slid off of the dryer and stepped towards her.

"Fine." He took a step closer. "Fine. So I was drunk. And so were you." Another step. "But I knew what I was doing."

He's standing right in front of her now. "And my _girlfriend chose_ not to be here. So it's _her _damn problem, not yours." He paused. "And not mine."

She can feel his breath hot on her neck as he leans to whisper in her ear. "And it was not. A fucking. Mistake."

This bullshit. This fucking bullshit. Again. So maybe he can't stop having dirty thoughts about Rachel Berry and, ok, fine, he likes sex and everything that goes along with it, and fine, he has a fucking girlfriend (who isn't here, who's never here, whatever) but fuck, he's nobody's fucking mistake and he's sick of always being hers.

He leans his cheek against her head, inhaling her hair, her hair that always smells like vanilla fucking cookies and he just can't even.

Goddamn it.

In high school, he wasn't Finn, so he was a mistake. So many times, because he wasn't Finn fucking Hudson, he was Quinn's mistake, he was Rachel's mistake.

And he tried to prove himself to Quinn, and she took him, but, fuck, she's not here is she? She's never here, or there, and he is always second place and, that, ok, fine he will admit it, that _fucking sucks_.

Rachel is disarmed by his closeness, involuntarily rests her head against his face, and he feels her eyelids flutter closed. They stand there in silence for a few moments.

"Noah…" She whispers. "I know it was just once but...but what is it about you that it's so much bigger than a 'just once'? What are we really doing here?"

Fuck it if he knows.

Yeah. That's it. Fuck it.

Fuck it all. He's done.

"Don't know," he responds, tucking a piece of hair behind her opposite ear, trailing his fingers down her neck, her back, resting his hand above her waist as she circles her arms around his neck and tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder.

He's so tired of thinking. About the past few days. About everything. About everyone.

He could feel her take a deep breath. "If we start, I...I'm not entirely sure I'm going to be able to stop, Noah. I...I'm not entirely sure I'd...I'd _want_ to stop. I...I know I _should_, but..."

It's on him. She's putting it all on him, she's telling him she wants it too.

Technically, he's the one making the mistake, for once. He's the one cheating on Quinn.

But fuck it.

He pulls away from her, hands on her shoulders. "Rachel. I'd never make you do anything you don't wanna do," He sighs. "But, Jesus, I can't stop thinking about you since last night."

Why the fuck is it always _so wrong_. To just. Want. Rachel.

She bites her lip, and looks up at him through dark lashes.

"Well...can we at least go to your room instead of here?"

Um, _yes._ Jesus, _finally_.

* * *

><p>He's lucky as fuck that Becca and Nana Connie are somewhere else (and who the fuck cares where, cause, hello) as he and Rachel scamper through the living room and up the stairs to his room. He kicks the door closed and his hands are all over her, and she's gripping his arms, his shoulders, and he can't stop and he won't stop ever kissing her.<p>

He backs her onto the bed and leans over her, fumbling, pulling his tie off and he's never been so fucking horny for a girl before and God_dammit,_ this fucking _tie_. Rachel is laughing, her eyes crinkling as she helps him pull it over his head and he legit rips off her sweater and who the fuck cares, it was an ugly sweater anyway and she shouldn't ever wear clothes, like, ever, so he's doing the world a favor.

She smiles into his kisses, she curls her tongue around his, she pulls his head, his body closer, and he's trying to think of ham sandwiches and dentures and whales and anything else that could get his dick to calm the fuck down because, oh shit, she's stroking her nails at nape of his neck he nibbles behind her earlobe and oh _God_ and now she's unbuttoning his shirt and sliding her hands all over his shoulders and arms.

He wants to be like that Indian god with the eight arms because there is not a place on Rachel Berry's body that he _doesn't _want his hands on. It's all happening so fast. She shivers as he sweeps his fingers down her side, and sighs contentedly as he grips her waist tightly and Rachel arches her back to bring her hips closer to him and she feels his desire straight through his Dockers, which deliciously ignites hers even more.

_Slow down, Puck, slow down,_ he chants to himself. Ok, slow, but that skirt needs to be on his floor right now, and those tights, under the bed, fuck that, get that shit off of this girl and now she's laying there under him, all ivory lace and olive skin and _fuck_, he feels like he's 14 all over again and about to blow his load because, fuck. She's fucking gorgeous and he's never seen her full blown underwear (except, you know, dreams and shit) and it's even better in real life.

He's trying to keep it together, his mouth on her neck, her chest, circling her tongue around her navel and he's got this, he's got this.

But then he hears a breathy, "Oh God, _N_o_ahhhhhhh,_" when he moves to nibble her over her bra and he almost loses it, and then she's undoing his belt and pushing his pants off his hips and sweet Lord almighty fuck she grabs him through his boxers and wraps her fingers around and _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

He lifts himself onto his arms, away from her heaving chest, "Rach, God, fuck, Rachel, I gotta stop," he pants.

She's all big bright eyes and swollen lips and flushed cheeks. "I...what?"

He's breathing like he needs a fucking paper bag and maybe he does (like a pussy, but really). "Rachel, you're so Goddamn gorgeous and I just, I'm gonna fucking blow my load if I don't stop." He drops his head, because, fuck his life, here comes his conscience at the worst fucking time _ever._ "Rachel. I want to, oh God, I fucking want you so fucking bad but…" he groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. "I _know _it shouldn't be like this. This way."

He eases himself off of her and sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Since when is he all honorable and shit. Fuck. He couldn't seal the fucking deal, what the hell is _wrong_ with him.

He knows, though. He knows it shouldn't be a quickie like this. With all the circumstances surrounding them, with all this fucking history they have, it shouldn't be like this.

She's halfway between crestfallen and touched. "Ok," Rachel responds in a low voice, bringing herself to her knees. "Ok," she says louder. "Puck. Noah. I…" She scoots to the edge of the bed, still in just her bra and panties and tucks her legs underneath her, leaning her chin on his shoulder. "Ok."

He's talking into his hands. He's such a fucking loser. "Rachel, Jesus, fuck, I want you, fuck, I want you now, I fucking want you upside down and every which way but…"

"Noah. It's ok."

"Jesus Christ, Rachel. Fuck my life."

She can't help but grin, as a rather un-Rachel-like devilish thought crosses her mind. She can do this. She will do this.

"We don't have to have sex, Noah," She doesn't pause to analyze, to determine the pros and cons of her decision, and she starts to crawl off the bed and moves herself to face him. "And I appreciate your honesty and especially your gallantry."

No mistakes, no excuses, no cold showers. She kneels in front of him, her hands on his knees. "But I cannot possibly, with good conscience, leave things at this decibellic thundering crescendo without completion." She dances her fingers over the waistband of his boxers. "I am, if nothing, a woman of penultimate _finis._ So, please," She implores, her big brown eyes gazing up at him while she hooks her thumbs into his underwear and pulls down. "Let me...just…"

What the fuck, he's confused, hold up, what is happening here -

Rachel feels that language should accurately reflect the situation. She prides herself in finding and applying the perfect word for each and every situation, and she takes care in choosing and implementing compliments.

But the only word she can find when she sees Noah Puckerman like...like _that,_ in front of her, is a whispered, "Oh, my _fuck_."

And, then it's oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck yes, holy shit, sweet mother of all that is holy and God damn and her mouth on him and everything and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck and _Rachelrachelrachelrachelrachel _and her tongue is flicking and then she swallows around his length and all he sees is white and bright and light and he's not exactly sure how loud he is being but who the fuck cares and _yeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssss_ Rachel fucking Berry, ladies and gentlemen.

* * *

><p>Shortly after, she escapes to Noah's bathroom to freshen up while he's, ahem, "recovering." She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and leans over the vanity, staring at her reflection.<p>

_Who is this person I am becoming? _

_I cannot believe I just did that. _

_Rachel Berry. Rachel Barbra Berry, you are a saucy minx._

And she kind of, sort of...likes it.

It's hard to always be the good girl. To live up to these expectations that she, and everyone else, has for herself. She would talk herself into listening to her gut. She would wait in earnest, trying to tap into her intuition, trying to decode slivers of messages that, she thought, were delivered by fate. She'd absorb, analyze, turn over and inside out and upside down, her decisions, her options, and she whatever path she chose, she'd assume that was following her gut. After all, she'd waited, sometimes (often) impatiently for some sign to appear, to tell her what to do, where to go. And after this past year and a half, she pretty much decided her gut? Was broken. It always sent her in the wrong direction. She gave up on her intuition, because it had given up on her - NYADA, Funny Girl, that awful sitcom pilot...she followed what she thought she was supposed to do, and it betrayed her.

She smoothes her hair, touches her red, swollen lips, takes in the flushed cheeks, her bright eyes. This Rachel, she hasn't seen this Rachel in quite some time. This confident, take charge, go-get-what-she-wants Rachel.

In her career, her academia, she's back on track, thankfully being re-accepted into NYADA, just having lost a year of credits. So, if that's considered her endpoint, her result, well, at least that was correct. Although, her gut wasn't telling her to go back to Madame Thibodeaux with her tail between her legs, everyone else certainly was, and she was so angry at her intuition by that point that it seemed logical to follow someone else's. She's done following herself. She can't trust herself.

And then there was her love life. Her disastrous, explosive love life.

There was Finn.

Her intuition had told her to be alone, to be independent, to not tether herself to anyone, and for awhile, that felt good.

But then Finn was...gone.

And oh, the guilt. So much guilt. That if she was there, that if her last words to him were in love and not...well, not anger, but their last conversations weren't exactly love or even lust. That if she was enough for him, more for him, that maybe...maybe.

She never thought she was fully responsible, even indirectly, for his death.

But she never thought she was absolved of guilt completely.

Rachel just didn't know herself anymore. She had no confidence in her choices. No confidence in her direction. She played a decent part to the outside, convincing everyone that she was "ok", that she had a path, but really? She had this feeling of aimlessly floating, in black and white, for awhile now.

Until now.

Until she stopped thinking and analyzing and letting someone else make her decisions and second guessing her gut and waiting for banners in the sky and fireworks (although...yes, yes there were fireworks in this situation, this situation just then was certainly...electric).

No one makes decisions for Rachel Barbra Berry anymore.

She makes her own decisions.

She goes with it.

She listened to her gut this time and instinctively reacted and it was.

Amazing.

It wasn't without consequence.

And an unfortunate reality.

But moments in time like this, where the air is palatable and thick with lust and where her heart and her desire quiet her brain and her logic and even if it's just one moment, just this one moment, where she is on top of the world, then it was worth it.

Fortunately - and unfortunately - the consequences will be there tomorrow. But tonight?

Tonight is hers.

* * *

><p>Oh fuck. Oh fuck yes, that was just. Shit. He's still in awe and. Fuck. Holy. Just. Wow.<p>

What just happened here? What the fuck? Did Rachel just -

Damn. Fuck, his legs are still shaking and fuck, where did she go?

Shit. Holy shit and fuck and damn.

This girl.

_This. Girl._

* * *

><p>So of course, the minute she opens the bathroom door, he pounces on her. Noah Puckerman does not leave his women unfulfilled, <em>especially<em> after a performance as earth shattering as that. So fine, they don't have sex, but if she can make him moan like that with her tongue, well, you can damn well bet he's going to make that girl scream and fuck if anyone hears it and fuck conscience and mistakes and any of that horse shit.

Her taste, her touch, her moans, her gasps. Her breaths, her hands, the way she feels around _his_ hand, the way she clenches and tightens and releases and reacts to his fingertips and his tongue and his mouth and everything about her is perfect, especially her face, flushed, lips parted slightly, eyelashes fluttered, as he brings her to the brink, and over it, once, twice, and one more time because he likes the number three.

And maybe they didn't have sex and maybe they won't have sex, but this? This is a-motherfucking-ok.

She's stretched out on his bed next to him, wrapped up in sheets and comforters, basking in the afterglow (even though the actual thought makes her blush), when he gets up and starts fumbling in his dresser drawers. He throws an old McKinley football t-shirt at her. "Stay."

The request takes her by surprise, and she sits up and stares at him.

"Stay?" She repeats.

"Yeah," He shrugged. "It's late, isn't it?" He cocked his eyebrow. "I tired you out enough, right?"

"Oh," She can't stop the blush rising in her cheeks. "Well, yes. Yes. Um. Stay. Ok. Sure."

"Cool." He walks into the bathroom and begins running water.

She twists the t-shirt in her hands, bringing it to her chest, and smiles.

Stay.

* * *

><p>He wants her to stay. He wants to wake up with her, and ok, fine, maybe he wants to get her into his shower and fuck yeah.<p>

And honestly? It was easy to ask her to stay. The words just kind of tumbled out.

Why was it so hard to ask Quinn to come home...but so easy to ask Rachel to stay?

Fuck.

Quinn.

* * *

><p>Rachel's changed into his shirt <em>(heh, niiiiiiice<em>) when he comes back out from the bathroom, and she's sitting with her back against the bed's headboard. He flops down next to her, and Rachel suddenly is shy. She can't meet his eyes, she stares and fumbles with a hangnail, sitting up, stiff, rigid.

It's awkward again. Why is it awkward again?

She just gave Noah Puckerman a blowjob. And he...oh God, he was magnificent returning the favor.

And now she's laying in his bed, in his t shirt and….and…

And no matter how much soul searching she does, she's still Rachel Berry. And the sexual, lustful haze she was under is lifted, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't stop thinking about the potential consequences this "gut reaction" could get her.

"Rachel."

"Oh. Um. Yes?"

"You gonna sit up all night?"

"Right." She slides down the headboard and pulls the comforter up to her chin, curling into a little ball with her back to him.

He groaned. "Rachel. Seriously? After everything, you're embarrassed _now_?"

She rolled over to face him, eyes wide. "Was there something I should have been embarrassed about before?" Her hand clapped over her mouth. "My breath? Oh God. Did I bite too hard? What? Tell me."

Puck chuckled. "Baby, you were fucking dynamite. Absolute perfection." He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer.

"Oh, Noah," she sighed as she laid her head against his chest. "What are we going to do? What did we get ourselves into? What about Quinn, what about everything going on, what about -"

"Jesus, Rach," She could feel him rolling his eyes. "Just stop _thinking_ for tonight, ok? Live in the moment just a little bit longer, 'kay?"

"But everything will still be there to worry about tomorrow," she mumbled.

"Exactly. Tomorrow," he replied. "Tonight just...stay."

"Ok," she repeated, breathing in Noah's smell of pine and soap and musk and strength and closed her eyes. "Ok."


End file.
